Homeless
by String-of-scarlet-words
Summary: People are missing, but most only see, they don't look. As a consequence Sherlock Holmes, with the help of John Watson, endeavours to save his network of spies before it's too late and the lives of others are taken. But can he do this whilst battling the raging feelings that no Holmes boy should feel. A 'to be' 10 parter with said Johnlock to acompany.


He looked down at the people, highlighted by the spotlights of lamp posts in the street, through the frosty window panes of 221B, a judgmental frown set upon his face.

They were so... so unaware; brains hardly used; lives so...normal. Didn't they know how dull that was! Why is it they never see? They look, of course they looked, but they never see the battle field. It was if they were too scared to -

"Sherlock, are you even listening?"

Sherlock sighed. Did he really have to ask that question; surely he knew the answer?

"No John, you lost me at 'evil squirrel'. I refuse to take a case from a stupid child. Her appeal is poorly worded and put together and I have no interest in the matter of missing dolls!"

"She's only 5 Sherlock, not a university professor with a doctorate,"

"Even if **Lizzie** were, it wouldn't be much of an improvement,"

"Sherlock!"

He cast a lazy eye over to where John sat in his arm-chair, trying to keep warm by the fire, the day's newspapers and a heap of letters nestled in his lap. The doctor looked flushed, his cheeks glowing from the heat of the roaring fire-place and the couple of jumpers he wore. They always suffered during the winter, especially at night. But Sherlock, despite the cold, couldn't help admire the way John's hair looked slightly ruffled from where he had pulled the last jumper on.  
A slight smile escaped Sherlock's lips as he hid in the safety of the shadows. But then the sudden realisation of what he was doing, again, hit home. It made so him angry.

"What; the man was an embarrassment to the English Language! He could barely speak it let alone teach the subject!" he replied with perhaps too harsh a tone than John deserved. Still he didn't seem to notice, probably too used to the consulting detectives mood swings to be truly hurt or bothered.

"He was from **Essex**! What did you expect, a posh, upper class accent?"

"Anything but the accent he'd already attained!"

Sighing, John threw his head onto the back of his chair, eyes closed.

"Sherlock will you at least **consider** it, or look through another paper. You've done nothing for the past three weeks apart from complain and annoy Mrs Hudson with your experiments. Why didn't you take one of the cases from Mycroft? Ok, you probably could've solved most of them within a week, but at least you would have had something to do! Please, just...**cooperate** will you!"

"John, you could have solved the cases within the week. My brother's just trying to force feed us **fodder** so he could keep a closer eye on me,"

"He's only worried about you Sher-,"

"Worried enough to throw me away to Moriarty? You said it yourself John!"

"I-"

"Exactly!"

John glared and, for a split second, Sherlock felt nothing but guilt as he stood there. Guilt; such a human emotion. He didn't mean to hurt people, the delicate minds that they were, are, rather he saw little use in trying to feather and soften the truth that was always in front of him. Bluntness was always a gifted curse. They were just so normal, dull! But then… there was him. Dr John Watson. First glance and you saw a doctor, a healer; the next an adrenalin seeking killer starting to see things that only Sherlock could only see. Thrilling, dangerous… sweet.

It was this that seemed to force Sherlock back across the room to his own chair, directly opposite John, to look at the newspapers once again, reaching over to take them from the warm lap of his companion, uttering the words of defeat.

"I suppose…it might be worth my while…'helping people'," The very thought made him shiver ever so slightly. It came with the job, unfortunately. The feeling received after solving a case however was worth all the stupidity of feelings, as was the look of relaxation on Johns face.  
"God, Sherlock Holmes might actually be a human being!"

So he and John sat conversing for hours, flicking through the pages of broad sheets and tabloids. It was times like this when Sherlock had time to rejoice, sat by the fire, scotch in one hand, another tiredly flicking through the sorry excuse of today's society. Were all women so conceived in looking like deformed Ump a Lumpas with large boobs like this one on page three? Disgusting. The truth was that he didn't care; he was in the best company that neither black mail nor money could buy…well. He had sweet alcohol and warmth of the fire nursing him into a lullaby with the one man he could completely trust. Sherlock had never had such a thing until he met John. His biggest fear had been losing a case, looking stupid. Now, although this remained a worry at the back of head at all times, it was losing the solitude and intimacy that these moments held, just at the beginning of a case or in a rare pause. They were little gems in a life of ruin and uncertainty.

"That's interesting," It probably wouldn't be.  
"Hmm?"  
"It says here that the rate of homeless people have dropped dramatically decreased during the last half of this year,"  
"Really John, it really isn't that- … say that again,"  
"It says here t-,"  
"John get your coat!"

Footsteps echoed as they marched on, the streetlamps like spotlights on a stage, revealing the heavy down poor that was soaking Sherlock's slim figure, no matter how much he pulled up his coat around him. Pavements were empty of the pedestrians that had fled to the roads on late night buses, taxis and cars, the air filling with fumes of intoxicating gas, yet it didn't bother Sherlock. Why would it? He used to be (but still is…on occasion…only when he really needs to…when he can black mail Ms Hudson into letting him) a smoker and the smoke currently filling his lungs was irrelevant; fundamentally a distraction that could be easily be ignored. And so Sherlock carried on with his long strides down the street, avoiding gutters as he went. The rain was irritating him, his collar offering little protecting against the harsh, cold shower and he didn't want to get any wetter than he already was. Rain, why did it always have to rain?

Behind him a certain John Watson was trying to keep up breaking into a brief run now and then, a poor attempt to keep level with his taller friend, muttering grimly.

"Bloody walking, why do you always have to walk so fast? Could have taken a cab but no, nothing 'it wasn't worth waiting for'! Where the hell are we even going?"

He could tell that John was getting more and more agitated. For some reason he could never trust the night life of the back streets, the shadows of London. He himself, however, found his legs taking longer strides longing for the security of the back streets he knew so well, away from the scrutiny of the public eye.

Why did is always have to rain?

"Seriously Sherlock, where are we going?"  
John had, naturally, been kept in the dark. He always was. Sherlock didn't have many friends and those he had, he kept close to his heart; though he would never tell them that. But he never needed to. He made sure he made it clear if you were liked or not liked, no matter how low of insignificant your IQ was compared to that of the younger Holms brother (its true his was better than Mycroft's. Mummy had them tested). It was for Johns own protection.

"It's not about where we're going John. It's who we're seeing,"  
"What?"  
Sherlock stopped, dead still. John wasn't a skull, more a sponge. A stupid sponge but, never the less, a sponge.  
"Look around John, who do you see. Don't look, _**see**_. Who's here?"

A glance back showed a rather confused John looking down the quiet back street they had started to walk down.  
"There's no one here. It's raining and dark. Not many people wo-"

"Yes, yes people are in doors, well done. Now look. Who do we normally walk past down here; back on the main street near the bins, the gardens, underneath the bridge?"

The look of realisation that started to spread over Johns face was golden.  
"Old Ted…Homeless people!"  
"_Yes! God yes! Molly said they had a dramatic raise in body counts but they couldn't raise a point. They had no family, job, identification. Mycroft's case, body counts rising dramatically, with no cause! Alarms are raised. He comes to me to see if theirs is a pattern, he couldn't find any and that's the thing!_"  
"The thing?"  
"_There isn't a pattern! It's the subject matter! We've been walking for the past hour and already there around fifteen of them missing. Fifteen people missing in the past hour...fifteen! Why hasn't anyone noticed?"_ There was short paused followed by enquired "Because they're homeless?" from John.

"Because they're homeless; miscreants, shadows! No one cares...No one cares…that's..." He turned to John, face full off happiness and joy "that's brilliant!"

It was so clever!

John only offered a glance of disappointment and disapproval.

"Wrong thing to say?"


End file.
